


Sound Financial Advice

by Hectopascal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen, Harry Is Mammon, brace yourself for the long haul, eventually, stuff happens first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7977106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry Potter was six years old he saw a dirty penny lying on the ground. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. Everything else was history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound Financial Advice

“If you watch your pence, your pounds will watch themselves.”

 

When Harry Potter was six years old, he saw a dirty penny lying on the ground.

It was a rather hot day in Surrey and the out of season heat wave had forced most of the residents of Privet Drive indoors to seek the relief of air conditioning cranked up to high.

There were a few odd exceptions. 

The lady who lived in Seven braved the oppressive humid blanket to walk her dog. The man from Two was washing his car, shirtless and humming to a tune from his portable radio. The other lady who lived in Seven sat on her porch with two glasses and a pitcher of lemonade on a tray, waiting for her friend to return. 

And perhaps oddest of all, a small, scruffy-looking boy meandered down the sidewalk, disinterestedly casting his eye over wilting grass lawns as he trekked slowly to the park.

The boy’s name was Harry Potter and truth be told, he would rather be inside a nice, cool house like all the other neighborhood kids instead of walking around, making his clothes damp with fast-forming sweat. Unfortunately, he was not exactly like other children and circumstances beyond his control had driven him outside.

He wasn’t dwelling on that right now. In fact, he rarely thought about his own unnaturalness at all if he could help it. He harbored a secret hope that if it went ignored for long enough then it would go away and then maybe his family would  _finally—_

But he was getting ahead of himself. 

At that particular moment he wanted nothing so fantastical. He’d settle for a bit of shade and somewhere to sit down without getting stains on his shorts. 

Aunt Petunia didn’t like him getting dirty or making a mess or... a lot of things actually, but no matter what she said when she was angry Harry did try to listen. He just didn’t always remember and he didn’t always succeed even when he did, but he  _tried._ Maybe that counted for something. Probably not.

“ _You either do something right or you don’t!_ ” Uncle Vernon had ranted more than once at the dinner table. “ _Sod ‘trying’. If I hear that rot in my office one more time, why, I’ll—_ ”

His uncle had been telling a Work Story, of which he had many, but he had looked hard at Harry when he was talking about lazy or stupid or generally incompetent people who made ‘excuses’ for poor work ethic. Uncle Vernon really disliked that kind of thing and even though Harry hadn’t done anything wrong that day he still felt about ten centimeters tall. 

In the Dursley house, Harry often felt like that. He didn’t think _that_ was entirely normal either.

The park came into view. It was, as Harry had mostly expected, completely empty. He tried not to be too disappointed. 

If there had been somebody there, when Dudley was at home distracted by the telly and fizzy sodas, then maybe they would have been willing to play with Harry and they could have talked a little and maybe been friends when they saw that he wasn’t as bad as everyone said. He was good at sharing toys and never pushed anyone around and was really good at pretending games. 

But hey, he figured optimistically after a moment of indulging in pure fantasy, at least this way it could be like his own kingdom. He wouldn’t have to wait in line and he could go down the slide as many times as he wanted or just plop down anywhere without getting in the way.

It would be fun.

If only it wasn’t so  _hot_. 

He swiped an arm across his wet forehead and the curiously shaped scar behind his bangs. His lips pursed in displeasure when he looked at the benches usually occupied by watchful parents. The sun was almost directly overhead and  the trees planted nearby didn’t cast a shadow that Harry would fit in.

He could still sit down there or on a swing, but there wasn’t any shade over there either. Which only left...

Right.

Harry crawled into the big tunnel and made himself comfortable, stretching out as much as he could. The air felt even warmer in there than outside if such a mad thing was possible but taking up space was a luxury for Harry and it still felt glorious.

The only space in the entire Dursley household that Harry felt comfortable calling his own was the cupboard under the stairs where he had slept for as long as he could remember. 

It wasn’t that he resented his relatives for not giving him a proper room (nono _no,_ definitely not... even though there _was_ a guest room nobody used except Uncle Vernon’s mean, bulldog-loving sister, who only visited them once every three years and Dudley had two whole bedrooms for himself), but Harry couldn’t extend his limbs in every direction anymore without hitting clutter, cleaning supplies, or a wall. 

A big plastic pipe in a children’s playground was something of an improvement.

Aunt Petunia wanted him gone until dinner and that was a few hours out still. Harry was kind of thirsty and could have gone for a sandwich right then, but that was a familiar feeling and he ignored it.

Quite content, he closed his eyes as a tiny breeze wafted over his face. He breathed in the smell of hot plastic and woodchips and then he  _imagined_.

When the air became less stifling and the dull orange hue of the tunnel seeping through his eyelids dimmed as the sun sank, Harry regretfully emerged from his haven and began the walk home. He was tired and a bit sticky and preoccupied half with wistful thoughts of a shower, half with his latest strange dream, when his eye caught on a dark brown gleam.

He stopped and bent over to get a better look, absentmindedly holding his glasses in place as they tried to slide right off his nose.

It was a penny somebody must have dropped a while ago, dirty and faded on the visible side.

Without thinking too much about it, Harry picked the penny up—it was so warm it almost burned his fingers—and slipped it in his pocket. He continued on his way, now pondering dinner. He really was very hungry.

Sometimes, great beginnings come from small things.

$$$

The penny found its way to a battered tin box in Harry’s cupboard.

The box had probably been quite nice at some point, but it certainly wasn’t by the time it came into Harry’s possession. The hinges were rusty and the metal itself was bent and battered and the painting of a girl surrounded by flowers on the lid had been scratched and peeled away until it was hardly recognizable anymore.

But all of Harry’s things looked more or less the same and he didn’t even notice the state of disrepair. It was thin and small enough to be squirreled away in any number of nooks and crannies—including his pocket, under his pillow, and in the secret stash he kept behind the massive bleach bottle—and wide enough to hold his treasured bouncy ball.

He put the penny inside because it felt special somehow and he didn’t want to lose it until he figured out why.

No one would be angry if they found out, he rationalized. Aunt Petunia only let him keep the toys Dudley wanted to give away that weren’t worth the work of selling. A penny couldn’t buy anything, and he hadn’t taken it from anyone. He had _found_ it outside, so it wasn’t stealing.

There was no way such a little thing could get him in trouble.

Harry slept well and deep that night, loosely holding the little tin box in one hand tucked beneath his pillow.

$$$

In two months, he started school.

He didn’t think _that_ would get him in trouble either. 

$$$

Jeanine Wiesenberger had not sought higher education with the ambition of being a kiddy-school teacher.

On the contrary, that was the _last_ thing she wanted to do with her life. Like everyone, she had experienced good teachers and bad as she went through school and while she admired those rare few who were excellent, the thought of ending up in their position sent chills of loathing down her spine.

It was just… not for her.

_This, dear child,_ she thought ruefully, _is an example of the concept we call ‘irony.’_

Thirty-odd tiny human beings trickled into the room and found desks while Jeanine stood at the front of her _—ugh—_ classroom and regretted her decisions. All of them. She didn’t even _like_ children, but this was the best out of not very many bad options so she’d just have to buckle down and ride it out, regardless of her personal feelings.

Her eyes caught on one shrimpy boy in particular: messy hair, broken wire-rim glasses, baggy clothes, and a backpack that looked like it had been mauled by a dog more than once.

_Your responsibility,_ she reminded herself grimly.

“Okay class!” Jeanine clapped her hands once all the kids had finally found a chair to plant their rears in and forced a smile. “Let’s get started! I know you all must be very excited, but I’m going to ask you to please be silent during introductions and while I am speaking. Thank you. First of all, my name is Ms. Wiesenberger, but you can call me Ms. Wise if you like…”

$$$

Jeanine didn’t want to teach, but she didn’t have much of a choice.

Her true passion was numbers. She’d had a gift for them ever since she was little and enjoyed almost every math course she’d ever taken in university, even the insanely difficult ones about theoretical properties that could be proved but never used.

When she was nine, her father took off and her mother went back to work. When she was thirteen, her mother showed her how to balance a checkbook. After finding and correcting three mistakes, taking over and updating it weekly became one of her jobs around the house.

She was good at it. More, she enjoyed it. Her master plan was to become an accountant. Maybe one of those personal finance specialists who worked for the uber rich.

Her grades were impeccable. She had two internships and references, for god’s sake. She thought her resume was solid, that she was well off and appealing to any potential employers in the field.

Then the job market went to shite and she graduated and found herself scrambling for a job, _any_ fulltime job so she could start paying down her student loans and get an apartment and buy _food_. She didn’t dare touch her car except in times of utmost necessity. Her savings dwindled before her horrified eyes.

She had to do something. _Anything_.

Between two part-time jobs at a retail store and a fast food restaurant, she managed to cram in (too many, too expensive) online classes. She attended seminars on the weekends and took tests. She worked her _arse_ off and the bittersweet reward for her efforts?

She was certified to teach ankle-biters how to add one apple to three apples and get—dramatic gasp— _four apples_.

Fuck. Everything.

(At least the pay was good.)

$$$

“Just tell me what happened,” Ms. Wise said in a tone of strained patience and Harry examined his knees as though they might contain the answers she sought.

When nothing helpful presented itself, he shrugged. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Harry, that isn’t what I asked,” Ms. Wise said severely.

Harry struggled not to cringe. His teacher wasn’t really scary or strict, but she’d given out six homework assignments and he’d only returned one with the answers hastily scribbled in during the five minute break before class started. She wanted to know why and he didn’t know what to tell her.

The truth always got him in trouble anyway and he couldn’t think of a lie that satisfied so he was stuck in a chair in Ms. Wise’s office, thinking furiously and hoping desperately that she wouldn’t call the Dursleys.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, for lack of better options.

Ms. Wise just looked at him with her lips pressed firmly together. Her narrow brown eyes seemed to bore into his very soul.

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

“Okay then,” Ms. Wise said at last, exhaling through her nose. “Are you having any trouble with the material?”

Harry shook his head quickly.

“Are you not equipped to complete your homework before it’s due?” she asked.

“Er. Sorry, but what’s that mean?”

“It could mean a couple things.” Ms. Wise hesitated briefly. “Harry, do you have pencils at your house?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That was true. There were a bunch, but they were Dudley’s pencils and Harry wasn’t allowed to use them. He had a pencil Aunt Petunia gave him every morning before school and collected when he came home, so he didn’t improperly use it to deface property.

“Do you have enough time after school to do your homework?”

Harry thought about it for a second, and nodded.

It didn’t take him very long, truly. Given free use of lighting and something to write with, he could easily finish it during a break between chores or at night. The problem was: he didn’t actually have either and Dudley usually ripped up the paper anyway because he thought it was funny and there was nothing left for Harry to do.

“Do you think you’re so good that you personally don’t _have_ to do the homework?” Ms. Wise asked, a bit of the strange delicacy slipping from her voice.

This time Harry really did cringe and shake his head so hard he got a bit dizzy.

Ms. Wise sighed. “Harry, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. Can you please just tell me why you aren’t getting your assignments done?”

Harry bit his tongue and shrugged, unable to look her in the eye.

“Alright, fine.”

His head jerked up. Was he off the hook?

“Starting next Monday, you’ll stay afterschool with me until the work I assign in class is completed. You can ask me any questions you might have during that time but you will stay until all the problems are done or until four o’clock. If at that time, you aren’t finished, you’ll have to stay afterschool Tuesday to the same time and every day after that until you _are_ finished.”

Harry gaped.

Ms. Wise surveyed him over her desk. “Unless you rather would continue to discuss it now?”

“No, ma’am.” Harry said meekly. “That sounds fair.”

“Hmm. Please inform your guardians of the change in your schedule. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.”

“See you tomorrow, Ms. Wise,” he replied and left the office quickly, feeling as though he’d narrowly dodged a bullet.

$$$

Jeanine had a problem. That problem was a child and his name was Harry Potter.

She had thought, at first, that he was going to be the ‘troublemaker student’ all the other teachers in the lounge had warned her about. They all got some eventually, she was told. It was just bad luck to get one in her very first batch.

But she didn’t think that was it.

Harry Potter had started out a problem and, somewhere along the line, turned into a puzzle. Still in need of solving, but without the negative connotations.

He was a quiet boy, she had noticed. He never volunteered to answer questions in class and was always, without exception, picked last in any kind of activity. He didn’t seem to have any friends even though his chatterbox cousin was in the same class. He rarely turned in the assigned homework but got a perfect score on every test and in-class exercise she handed out.

If she didn’t know better she’d think him intelligent, but sullen and unlikable.

But that wasn’t it.

She’d spent hours with him afterschool and knew that, yes, he was very quiet, but when he chose to speak during times when it wasn’t strictly necessary the things he had to say were…interesting and insightful.

Jeanine was almost certain that if he tried, he could finish the assigned work in five minutes flat but he dragged it out time and again, asking questions and then listening with rapt focus to her distracted tangents. Once he’d asked a question—math related!!—that she didn’t know the answer to.

(They had covered how to respond to this in one of the seminars, but the seminars were full of old people who didn’t know anything about bright, nervous children and how wide they smiled when praised and how quickly all their astonishing livelihood could be tucked away at the slightest sign of disapproval.)

(Screw the seminars.)

She had admitted to not knowing—adults are fallible, kid, take this as a life lesson—and they had looked it up together and Harry’s stupidly sweet smile had stayed firmly in place for nearly an hour after.

She liked the kid, which was troubling because now she worried about him. About how he stayed at school for as long as she allowed it, about how he still hadn’t told her what his problem with doing his homework at home was, about how friendless he was, about how she caught his cousin shoving him into a desk once and he jumped when people spoke loudly around him, about how his broken glasses were taped together and never replaced and about how none of his clothes fit and how _thin_ he was—

Clearly, someone was fucking up somewhere even if Jeanine was the only one who could see it because _kids were not supposed to be like this._

If she had any proof, even one single bruise, she’d call child services in a hot second even if she was dead certain that Harry would refuse to say anything to anyone. At least then something might get done.

Of course there was the little fact that, _you’re his teacher, dumbass. There are bounds you can’t overstep_ , she reminded herself.

But she _was_ his teacher and she was _not_ about to sit around and do nothing.

So.

“Hey, Harry.”

He looked up from where he’d been staring at his worksheet with the glassy eyes of the incredibly bored.

“Do you want to do something a little different? I’ve got this test here I’m not sure about giving the class and if you try if for me and get a ninety or better, you can pick a sweet out of the candy jar.”

“Sure, Ms. Wise,” Harry said and smiled at her.

She didn’t even have to fake the smile back.

$$$

“What is this?” Aunt Petunia held the piece of paper like it was filthy when Harry presented it to her after dinner, pinched between her thumb and forefinger. She was squinting like the words on it were incomprehensible gibberish and her mouth was pursed with displeasure.

“My teacher gave it to me,” Harry said, examining the floor. There was some discoloration by the table legs. He should remember to get that with bleach next time he did the kitchen. “She told me to give it to you or Uncle Vernon.”

Aunt Petunia sniffed loudly. “This is utterly preposterous. You certainly aren’t smart enough to be skipping grades and I don’t know how you fooled that young woman into thinking you are, but I won’t have it.”

_I’m not_ , Harry found himself thinking suddenly, viciously. _I’m not stupid. Ms. Wise said I’m not._

“At least this way I won’t be in Dudley’s class, right?” he asked, switching his focus to the dust collecting under the cabinets. He’d have to get that too. “He won’t be, uh, distracted by me anymore.”

Aunt Petunia flapped the paper at him and made another unpleasant expression. “If you would just sit quietly and _behave_ like a proper child, he wouldn’t be distracted in the first place.”

Harry bit his lip and said nothing.

“But, I suppose,” Aunt Petunia mused to herself, looking over the form again, “distance between your influence and my Diddykins can only be a good thing. And naturally you’ll have more work to keep you out of trouble… Be useful really…”

Harry continued saying nothing and dared to hope.

“Hmm. Go away, boy. I need to discuss this with Vernon.”

$$$

And that was how Harry Potter was moved out of Dudley Dursley’s class and up a grade.

He still met up with Ms. Wise every day after school to do his homework and chat.

It was a system that satisfied almost everyone involved.


End file.
